


Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?

by ummmmm (sumhowe_sailing)



Category: Wooden Overcoats
Genre: M/M, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 20:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14386284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/ummmmm
Summary: Rudyard still gets flustered sometimes thinking about that time Chapman was drunk and really happy to see him.





	Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Written for some prompts strangelingincarnate sent me on tumblr~~
> 
> Title from Edgar Allan Poe and not super relevant, I'm just terrible at titles ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

He’d never admit it, but sometimes he still woke in a cold sweat from dreams about a conference gone wrong; a mandolin overseeing a gruesome battlefield—vicious laughter swallowing him—an eternity spent scrubbing humus out of carpets. But worst of all were the nights he woke from dreams of the stolen welcome reception. The dream was never much different from the reality of that night. He went to Chapmans wine bar in his shirt sleeves (or in his underwear—dreams were cruel like that), hoping only for a glass of milk and an inkling of belonging. Even in his dreams he could feel the nerves constricting him, the anxiety choking him. And then all of a sudden—

“Rudyard! You came!” A smile like pure sunshine and enough genuine warmth in his voice to match the metaphor, Chapman threw his arms around Rudyard. In reality he had probably smelled like booze, but in the dreams Rudyard felt enveloped by an entirely unrelated intoxicating cologne.

“Ah, I missed you, you big bear.”

“S-s-steady on there, Chapman.” Why couldn’t he speak normally even in his dreams? It had been a bizarre moment—it would have been overwhelming even if he hadn’t already been so on edge about the speech. But why couldn’t he just push Chapman away and leave the party before it got worse?

“Rudyard…” he could still hear that soft slur sometimes. So concerned.

“Yes?”

“Rudyard—“

“What?”

“They don’t think we like each other. But we _do_ , don’t we? Deep down. ‘s all just a joke. You’re a brilliant man, somehow, I know you are.”

“Mmm, well, well, thank you, Chapman, you are also a…man.”

Drunken laughter. “See! What a joker.”

He always awoke when Chapman turned away and announced that his guitar wouldn’t be drinking that night. The conversation had only gotten more nerve-wracking after that, but it was Chapman’s behavior that night that had really left its mark on Rudyard.

He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about how snugly he’d fit in Chapman’s arms. Tried not to think about Chapman’s hair against his cheek. Tried not to think about how _excited_ and _happy_ Chapman had been to see him. It wasn’t likely he’d ever get that kind of reception from anyone again. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. They were rivals, after all, and Chapman had probably forgotten all about it by the time he’d started singing that duet. Rudyard wished desperately he could forget it that easily too.

 

And maybe that was why he had to insist he was only drinking the latte for Georgie’s sake. Chapman wouldn’t have cared, but it mattered to Rudyard that no one could mistake his intentions. No one should think he was there because he wanted to be. (Was staring into Chapman’s eyes all evening because he wanted to. Was laughing because he wanted to. Was telling all his favorite stories because he wanted Chapman to see who else he was outside of Funn Funerals.) Besides, this funeral was serious business. And the best man speech, that was serious too, in its own way. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy himself here. It was supposed to be a business transaction, however abstract.

So once he’d told enough stories for Chapman’s speech, once he had secured the promise for the hot air balloon, why did he stay? Why did he accept the second latte? Why did he lean in and smile (not the practiced smile, something…softer, something real) so much as he told the next story, and the next? And why for the love of god did Chapman have to look so _happy_ to have him there, so _happy_ to be listening to him? (It was just the stories—he needed the stories, that was all. What else could it have been?)

When Antigone burst in, he expected the bubble of contentment to burst immediately; it didn’t. He told another story, with some additions from his sister, still basking in the comfortable glow. And then--

“Can I ask you both to stay for dinner?”

And he wanted to. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted anything so badly. He didn’t want to leave this moment, afraid if he did he’d never get the chance to be so open and comfortable with Chapman—with Eric—again. But he couldn’t say that, and before he could figure out what he should say, Antigone was politely declining for both of them. And the moment was gone.

It was just as well. He had a funeral to prepare for, and this one had to be done properly. And Chapman had his stories. And if nothing else, they’d had a nice afternoon. They might never have another one like it, but he thought he might be okay with that. If he was lucky, he might dream about this now instead.


End file.
